


Sweet, Sweet, Sweet

by ashisfriendly



Category: Parks and Recreation
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-30
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2018-02-23 04:38:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2534483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashisfriendly/pseuds/ashisfriendly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>College AU! Ben has to take a poetry class. Leslie wears glasses because why the hell not?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet, Sweet, Sweet

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY HALLOWEEN! Halloween is quickly mentioned and there are costumes for a second so that counts as a Halloween treat for all of you right? Just a shoutout to Hana for endorsing anything I do without a second thought

“Nothing is available,” Ben groaned, rubbing his face.

“I know,” Chris said. Somehow, though, he didn’t seem that upset about it. “Oh! Look, a poetry class! Good for the soul and the mind.”

Chris clicked on the trackpad of his laptop and celebrated by throwing his hands in the air and smiling. Ben looked between his computer screen and his roommate. Poetry? Did that even count toward anything?

Ben clicked through the catalogue and saw the poetry class. Poets and Forms. It probably counted for nothing, but a poetry class would be an easy A and he needed 12 units to stay a full time student.

So that’s how Ben Wyatt took a poetry class.

And met Leslie Knope.

 

On the first day of class, there was a random quote on the board. Ben typed it into his notes and took the syllabus from the student in front of him and passed the stack on. There weren’t many kids in the class, and half of them looked as disinterested as him. Staring at their phones, at the door, at the clock above the door, carving initials or dicks into the small desks.

He had to buy so many fucking books.

“Can I help you find anything?” A cheerful voice sparked behind him.

Ben blinked a few times at the stacks of books and turned around.

He noticed two things first: the thick black frames of her glasses and her bright, blond hair.

“Um, yeah,” he said. He let his mouth slide into an easy smile. It was hard not to, she was practically beaming. She, this small girl with the actual sun living right beneath her skin, was smiling so big, like helping him in this state university bookstore was on par with winning the lottery. He cleared his throat. “I’m taking this poetry class and apparently that means I spend all of my money on books.”

She tilted her head and twisted her face into a sympathetic scrunch. Good lord.

“Yeah, but at least it isn’t a math or science textbook,” she said, taking his class syllabus, “those cost like $200 a piece.”

“I know, I am an accounting major.”

She looked up at him, her face falling. “I’m so sorry.”

He laughed. He put his hands up. “You don’t like the strategic and beautiful concept of balancing money and crunching numbers?” He put a hand over his chest. “I’m offended.”

The girl turned her head, just slightly away from him and she glared at him out of the corner of her eye.

“Anyway,” she said, looking back at his syllabus. “Let’s get you these books.”

Ben got all of his books, but he didn’t get her name. That’s fine. He knew where to find her.

 

“That’s it?” the girl asked, three days later.

Ben stood on the other side of the counter, his smile big. He shrugged.

“Mine broke.”

He couldn’t ignore the pink tint to her cheeks. No one could. He was sure NASA could spot it from the moon or wherever NASA was. The girl picked up the number two pencil and punched in a few keys on the register.

“Fifty one cents.”

Ben dug into his pocket and pulled out a handful of change. He counted the exact amount and slid the coins to her. When she reached for them he grabbed her hand and turned it over. He slipped a pen out of his pocket and leaned over the counter, watching the ink slide onto her palm. Her hand was so small, soft, her fingers a little cold.

He could feel the heat from her glare, darting from his face and her hand. He bit the inside of his lip, outlining the B, E, and N of his name a few times. He clicked the pen and squeezed her fingers before pulling away. He grabbed his new pencil and flicked it behind his ear.

“You never told me your name,” he said, backing away from the counter.

“No I didn’t,” she said, her cheeks even redder, her eyes a little brighter.

Ben smiled and her own grin grew. She pushed her glasses up her nose and Ben fell back into a display of scantrons. She laughed, a big cackle that rang through the bookstore. He adjusted the racks of papers, picking up a few that fell to the floor. Ben looked at her when he was finished, making sure it was suitable. His heart was beating out of control and he somehow felt 14 again, not 20.

She laughed again, softer this time, concealed by the tight clasp of her lips. She nodded, though, encouraging.

“Nicole, maybe?” he guessed, squinting as he walked toward the door.

The girl just shook her head and looked down at the floor, her glasses sliding down her nose.

Ben pointed to her hand. “Just let me know as soon as you can.”

His phone buzzed in his pocket two minutes later on his way to Corporate Taxation.

_Leslie_

 

“No cell phones in class,” his professor snapped, “please.”

Ben shoved his phone into his pocket, embarrassment prickling into his neck, his cheeks. But his stomach was doing that amazing thing where it twisted and turned and felt light all at once. He’d been texting Leslie all night and the pleasant back and forth was steady into the morning.

His professor turned back to the board, writing other suggestions on the meaning behind the color blue or something, Ben wasn’t paying attention, and Ben took his phone back out.

_Lunch today?_

He typed the nonsensical notes from the board. His phone buzzed.

_I’m out at 2_

Ben bit the inside of his cheek.

_Me too. Cafe?_

She didn’t text back until after class, but he was already on his way to the cafe. Which was good, since she agreed to meet him there a few minutes later.

The fall air was crisp but hadn’t started it’s unbearable decline, so they ate on the lawn behind the cafe. It was Leslie’s idea.

Ben pulled his Ray Bands out of his backpack and slipped them over his eyes as Leslie watched. When he looked back to her, she looked away, unwrapping her sandwich. Ben opened his bag of chips and stuffed one into his mouth.

“So--”

“How--”

They both smiled, looking to each other and their food. Ben motioned for her to go first.

“How’s your poetry class going?”

“Terrible.”

Leslie chewed, tilting her head. “I’m sure it’s not so bad. Just make sure your poems rhyme,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t understand poetry that doesn’t rhyme.”

“I don’t understand poetry at all.”

“Well then it’s good you’re taking a class.”

Ben laughed, nodding. They ate in pleasant silence, the sounds of people passing filling the quiet between them. Ben was thankful for his sunglasses, so he could sneak glances at her. The side of her mouth had a smudge of mustard on it for so long he almost wiped it off himself. But eventually, her tongue darted out to swipe it away. He counted backwards from 100 by threes to stop his mind from spiraling.

She sipped her soda and pushed her glasses up her nose. Ben tucked his chip bag under his backpack so it wouldn’t fly away. Leslie lay back on elbows, crossing her legs at the ankle. Her head tilted back and she closed her eyes, face to the sky.

Something weird stirred in his mind, something that itched at his fingers and up his arms, into his chest. He watched the wind take her hair and slide against her neck. The way her sweater folded and creased down her torso. He saw the shift of light across the planes of her face as the clouds moved. He noticed the light dusting of freckles under her eyes, easily shielded by her glasses.

And when she took one deep breath, her body expanding and deflating below the distant calm of the cloudy sky and above the soft grass cradling her, he felt that weird stirring turn to electricity in his bones.

He dug through his bag, pushing past his laptop to the small notebook he sometimes had. He couldn’t find it, or much of anything. He groaned and pushed the backpack down, pushing his hand into his pocket for the receipt form the cafe.

“Is everything okay?” Leslie asked. She tilted her head up, looking at him with concern. He almost yelled for her to go back to the way she was.

“Uh, yeah, yeah, do you have a pen?”

Leslie arched an eyebrow. “I sold you a pencil yesterday.”

Ben sighed. Leslie smiled, moving to dig into her own bag. She pulled out a zipper pouch and threw it at him.

He unzipped it, pulled out a pen from the infinite supply of writing utensils, and smoothed the receipt on his leg.

And wrote.

 

The writing never seemed to stop after that.

It hardly ever made sense, even to him. Writing poetry wasn’t really a requirement for class, he had one assignment where they had to imitate another poet, but for the most part, it was a lot of interpreting pieces and learning about specific poets. But he was at least paying attention, turning in assignments and essays that came back with A’s. He kept one of his poetry books in his bag at all times, the spines broken, pages dog eared. He raised his hand in class.

But really, he was writing.

Always.

Always about her.

Like some terrible cliche, his muse was a bespectacled girl from the bookstore who laughed at his terrible puns and looked beautiful against the grey, fall sky. Her boots kicked into the leaves, splashing earth tones all around their legs.

He wrote about the leaves and her boots. Also, he wrote about how she looked. How the world seemed to frame itself around her. He wrote about how he wanted to kiss her. How her hair smelled when the breeze caught it and he was fortunate enough to be downwind of her. He wrote about her endless dreams, bigger than the undiscovered galaxies. He tried to write, but eventually couldn’t, about her face when she read over her history textbook. He wrote a poem about how she promised to make him a daisy chain in the summer.

He was a pathetic goner, but it felt good regardless. He may be a cliche, but his happiness was a refreshing twist to his character.

Leslie was smart, she had to know what he was doing. She was also kind, so she didn’t say anything about it. If anything, he saw she smiled a lot more, a broad, big smile that beamed of pride.

Halloween came, he tried to write some poem about ghosts but it was stupid, so he threw it away. Leslie came to his dorm party, some lame thing hosted by Tom and Jean Ralphio, dressed as Velma from Scooby Doo. His heart stopped when he saw her short, brown hair, but she complained about the itch of the wig and Ben exhaled in relief.

There was a time when he preferred brunettes.

“Who did you rob?” Leslie asked, stepping into his room. She pulled the wig off and her blond waves fell down around her face, over her shoulders.

_Like the sun was finally breaking through._

Ben looked down at his Robin Hood costume. He shrugged. “The rich, obviously.”

Leslie nodded, pushing her glasses up her nose. She pushed up the sleeves of her orange sweater to her elbows.

_Soft giving way to smooth._

Ben shut the door behind him. Leslie turned back to him, smiling. There was a nervous, almost shy tilt to her head, slope to her body. He felt it, too.

_The push of hearts, sweat, trembling limbs._

Ben took a step to her, testing. She didn’t move. He went farther, two more steps, until his hands cupped her face. She inhaled. He slid a thumb over her bottom lip.

_Soft promise of opening._

He hummed. Leslie puckered her lips just as his thumb left her mouth. He took one hand away and pushed her hair from her face clasping strands beneath his hand on the back of her head. His palm fell, slow, down to her neck. Her eyes closed, her chin tilting up. Ben pulled, leaned, until their mouths brushed.

_Sweet, sweet, sweet._

His fingers gripped and her mouth opened. His mind began to race, words, sporadic in rhythm, meaning, and syllables. Writing, words, they weren’t that different from numbers. Like numbers, they had a rhythm, they fit together to create something with meaning. But here? With Leslie’s lips smoothing over his, her tongue light and warm inside his mouth, her soft sighs deep in her throat, seeping into his, it was hard to keep them in line, keep the adjectives from merging with the verbs. Rhythms were gone. Sense was gone.

Only one word stayed, constant and understandable. It flowed through him as she lifted her arms, her shirt pulling up from his hands. When his own shirt fell to the floor, when their bodies were bare, when his hand slipped between her legs, when her mouth traveled down, when they were connected and all there was were groans and the smacking of skin, there was only one word.

Just one word.

_Leslie._


End file.
